


Green as the Woods

by Caolan Vane (darkflameoracle)



Series: Follow My Lead, I'll Follow Yours [1]
Category: League of Legends
Genre: Ableist Language, Character Study, Gen, Lore Building, Old Lore, Origin Story, Warnings May Change, mentions sexualization of a character, new lore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-11 13:02:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11714940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkflameoracle/pseuds/Caolan%20Vane
Summary: She's just like her mother, they always said, but she never imagined needing to live up to a memory like this: if she's a breeze, her mother's the sort of gale autumn brings. Matching her footsteps is like running to match pace with a storm.Quinn's mother went missing days after Caleb's death and hasn't been seen since, but Quinn found a bird in the forest on the anniversary of his passing, and nursed it back to health. Now, it is time for them to flee the nest - both of them - and her father wishes her well. Unfortunately, it isn't so simple to live the life of a soldier, or even a ranger, for that matter, especially one from the countryside with little experience. Uwendale was comfortable... and this is bordering on obscene. City life doesn't suit neither Quinn nor her avian companion, and the pair of them must overcome their differences with their new surroundings or dishonor her mother's name.





	1. Grand City Of Demacia

**Author's Note:**

> I write dialogue based on setting, so some of it might get a bit racy at times. The first chapter features some right off the bat, once she starts talking with the guard on duty, if you'd like to skip that. The canon characters tend to be better about it. TBH, that's 90% of the reason it's rated T -- I don't want to avoid including the NPCs of the world. I will put all actually dodgy (mature+) as one offs. They aren't really necessary to her plot, tbh, except for a couple instances of extreme violence. Moments like that will be tagged. I might have to bump up the rating of this one for violence, too, since we do have a king almost get murdered here in this volume.
> 
> Also, this is like the weird lovechild of old and new lore. Quinn recently got her update, and I'm expecting many more to come. I don't work with Institute of War in any of my pieces these days, but I do use some Journal of Justice. It's weird. Like I said. Weird lovechild. Granted, I do add some bits of flair (i.e. Quinn's relationship with Valor) but it will be mostly New Lore. Characters will be added as I go. 
> 
> Anyway, I don't bite, please comment and subscribe, and if you want to follow other writing featuring the adventures of Quinn and Valor, go follow my tumblr roleplay/drabble/art blog demacianwings.tumblr.com! Enjoy!

In the distance, the Grand City of Demacia looms.  
  
It’s bigger and brighter than all the stories say it is, with gleaming gargoyles of petricite lining the battlements and huge statues guarding its gate. Despite the hour is nigh on dusk, people still rush in and out of the city of lights and safe stones. The horse Quinn’s father had gifted her for the journey chomps at the bit between his teeth, oozing the green drool of springtime clover from his jowls. Behind her, the wooden crate holding a small, yet still powerful eagle jostles, and he peeps from within, whistling his worries and fears. At this point in his training, he still wears every provocation on his sleeve, and Quinn knows if she doesn't get into the city soon, the poor bird might hurt himself in his crate. The path leading up to the gate begins to make Quinn feel all the smaller. Valor can sense her doubt; he's screeching and fluttering around in his crate enough to strain the ropes holding down the wooden box, and the horse beneath her responds to the jostling by picking up his head to jig a couple of steps forward, but not fully charge careening towards the city. He is a good horse, Quinn's dad was sure of that, so perhaps should she need another war-trained horse meant for rough terrain like this stocky fellow, she could choose this level-headed gelding.

In through the doors of the city, everything grows louder and more active, with the paths of people hurried further by the darkening light across the sky. She slows her jigging horse to an easy amble, and maintains her skyward gaze. The white stone radiates pink sheen, the clock towers ring to announce the evening hour, but it feels suffocating and terrifyingly cramped despite the path that could hold at least sixteen mounted soldiers abreast. Pinpricks of stars and celestial bodies peek through translucent brushstrokes of clouds. The only thing here still freeing is the sky above her. Even Uwendale wasn't so blockaded.

Quinn dismounts off the main path, and loosens the saddle but not the strappings holding up her belongings, and addresses a soldier on duty.

"Good evening to you, sir," she begins, dipping down her chin out of respect. Her mother's teachings heavy on the mind, she makes a point of formalizing her tongue. "Might there be a place nearby to rest?”  
The soldier eyes her warily. " Are you a harlot, girl?"  
  
Quinn is taken aback by the question. "What?"  
  
His laugh barks out like a crow teasing a hound. "You simple, too? I'll have you know tis not accepted amongst men-at-arms to bed ladies like you."

"What!? I never --" Even more taken aback than before, she begins to put distance between herself and the man, one hand lowered close to Caleb's knife embedded in its leather sheath at her hip.

The soldier shakes his head, a slight glance of his eyes rolling through his brows. "If you never, then you obviously aren't from around here, are you?"

Quinn thinks it obvious. Her clothes are nothing like the high fashion adorning the people of the city, and in comparison look more akin to rags than even what this guard wore under his doublet. Her wool shirt has kept her warm thus far, with its cowled neck around her throat enough to hide her nose from the winds of springtime air, and her dark auburn hair (wine-dark, her mother had called it) is not tied in a bonnet but with a strand of twine.

"I've been on the road for three days, sir, I just need a place to sleep."

"A country lass if ever I've met one, then," he mutters in response. "Inn's down the road on the left. If I were you, girl, I wouldn't be so mindful of guard. People might think something of it."

Whether other people thought something of her or not, she definitely has words for this. She leads the horse down the road with a furrow in her brow.

"Are people in cities truly so elitist and rude?" she whispers to her equine companion, who, despite all beneficence, has no ability to understand her.

From a young age, her mother had taught her the importance of manners, especially for the nation's men- and women-at-arms. As such, the crass remarks of the guard on post strike her as odd. It was by no means necessary to treat her so, and yet he had.

Quinn pauses at the inn's front stoop, taking a moment to recollect her composure before entering. She'd not been in the city for long, but already she was exhausted, and the sight of the inn was a welcome one. The sign above the door reads "The Startled Hen," and features a chicken out of wood carving with paint, though it looks far more like a cock than a hen, beak parted and crest a-flayed. Warm firelight spills from the windows onto darkening streets, and already the inn's bar within is bustling with evening noise and activity. She leads her horse to the stable, and a hand makes motion to take over her horse.

"I need the crate, please," she requests, and the groom cast a look her way.

Was everything she did so obviously rural?

"What's in the crate, madame?" he asks casually, beginning to unstrap it. He releases it crooked, and the crate in turn releases a heated squawk.

"Please, let me," she insists, taking the obviously-rattled box of bird off his hand.

"What's in the crate?" he repeats, his expression less confused now and far more frightened. His eyes shine with fear, and she hesitates.

"An eagle," she says slowly, gripping the base of the crate. "An azurite."

The stable-hand blinks, jaw falling slightly slack. "Are you joking?"

She shakes her head.

"A real azurite?"

She nods.

"Are you mad? By the Light, they haven't been seen since the days of King Jarvan the second, and you caught one?"

"I didn't really catch one, I nursed it back to health and --"

"Hey Benoit! This girl caught herself an azurite!"

Quinn blushes, beginning to feel the starts of red-hot embarrassment throb through her chest and prickle at the back of her neck. By the light, she just wanted to get inside and check to see if her bird was alright.

"Prove it," snapped the other. "Those are just birds of myth, my pa used to say if you can't go out and see one, it idn't real."

"Can you?" asked the first.

"I mean --" Quinn steps back slightly, her fingers curling into the soft wood of the crate in a subconscious act of protection for her beloved companion.

"Can't even prove it," spat the second. "I wouldn't be surprised if it were a little frosty hawk in there."

"Making all that noise? Didn't you hear it?"

As the pair continued bickering, Quinn sets Valor's crate to the straw, then untacks her mount. They won't stop anytime soon, she thinks grimly. She had never been privileged enough for a groom as it was -- why would the lap of luxury start immediately upon entering the city? She rubs down the gelding's flanks and legs with her own handkerchief and brushes off each hoof with the palm of her hand, then leaves him in only his rope halter for the stable-hands -- as incompetent as they seem -- to blanket and water.

It occurs to her as she steps from the barn with Valor's crate cocked on her hip that she might be wise to lie about Valor, at least until she acquires a position in the army. People would know of her then. With her pack over one shoulder, she slips into the inn and rest the crate on a bar stool.

"One room, please, just one bed. I just need it for a couple of days, till I can get on my feet."

The innkeeper looks her up and down. "Ten gold a night."

Quinn produces her coin purse and counts out ten gold pieces, which she rests on the counter eagerly.

Much slower than her, the innkeep counts them himself, and pockets them, then produces a key. "In the back on the left. It's room number fifteen."

She slips from the busy bar to the quiet back of the inn, where her room is. Upon unlocking, the door swings open with a squeal on its hinges, revealing a dingy room far drabber than many of the homes she'd visited in Uwendale. There is but a bed, a dusty rug, wood floors, and a dresser against one side. Moonlight pours in through a singular window, and the sole fancy feature of the room is a gas lamp on the bedside table with a container of safety matches beside it. Even her parents, having sold horses to the military for years, could never seem to round up the money for a Piltovan gas lamp or the gas to power it. The room itself is slightly cold, but the quilt on the bed seems heavy enough, and her cloak strung over her shoulders still warms her.

“Alright, Val, you gotta be quiet.”

Quinn unlatches the door to the crate, swings open the door, and gently tugs the bird from his comfortable perch within. As soon as he's free, he spreads his wings to their full span, rouses his feathers, and blinks sleepily at his handler, almost a silent thanks to her freeing him. She allows him to sit upon her lap as she picks at his feathers, just to make sure none had been broken, and examined the pads of his feet, to ensure he hadn't cut himself or rubbed himself raw on the trip there. Overall, he seems in fine health, his vibrant blue plumage glossy in the low light of the room, and his eyes still shining with an eagerness unparalleled by any animal she'd laid eyes on. The soft blue and orange down of his belly seemed to have a couple of new pinfeathers coming in to replace his downy baby feathers. Truly, he is maturing into something like an adolescent, past the stage of ungainly wings and pillowy pinions.

She lets him go as soon as she finishes with him, but quickly calls him back to her glove with a chunk of meat from her blood bag. He gulps down a mouse and some raw rabbit left over from the day before that had just began to ferment in the bag, and sips rivulets of water from Quinn's canteen into her open palm. She could have gone to the bar to get a glass for herself, rather than drinking from her hands, but she would have rather stayed in the silence.

On the morrow, she thinks, she will ride to the castle, and ask the king to make her a scout, but she knows it won't be so simple. She will carry Valor the whole way as she rides astride the Selby-branded mount, and stop outside the doors. He will listen. It's hard not to, with the symbol of your nation perched on the speaker's fist.

A brief smile crosses her face.

Quinn washes up her face with her dripping hands, dresses down to her undershirt and trousers, and slips under the quilt. Tomorrow will be a busy day.


	2. Audience with Dignitaries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quinn meets Lestara Buvelle, who might just get her on her feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flavius is a character not owned by me. He belongs to Judy (ladybuvelle) of Tumblr. Go check her out! He's such a minor character here but he's actually really cool. She has so many drabbles with him on her blog -- go check her out. ladybuvelle.tumblr.com

The castle seems even more intimidating up close, and though Quinn had thought the gargoyles impressive but one day prior, the Hall of Kings is something else, something far grander. Light filters in from high-set windows onto marble floors and reflects like sunlight on a lake after a storm. Everything in her surroundings is stark white and shining, and there is no space for light to dissipate into shadow. It is like all the temples she'd ever seen, but better, and bigger, and more empty, for, if nothing else, the reverent silence is not punctuated by the steady chanting of monks.

This is only the entrance hall.

All prior lineage of King Jarvan and all the kings before him line the hall in massive likenesses, with their pennants and banners offering their family name, their own names, their weapons, their crests. The lot of them bear jawlines and nose ridges literally chiseled out of white marble, not so glossy as the polished floor beneath her feet, but thrice as grandiose. The detail on each of them is magnificent, with obvious flows of fabrics draping at each of their feet, and nicks on each blade where it might have felled some great beast. They all seem so real, they could step out of their alcoves and into the atrium.

Quinn peels her gaze from the statuary towards the path before her. She had left the horse at the gate, and Valor sits anxiously on her fist. She can sense his unrest in the shiver of each feather. Her footsteps echo through the hall, and at the end of it, the guard standing watch at the end dip their spears as one to bar her way.

“I seek audience with the king,” she says quietly.

The guard do not budge, in fact, one of them plants his feet.

“Please,” she pleads, yet softer, “my brother is dead, my mother is gone… this is all I have left.”

“Let her through,” says a voice from beyond the barricade. It booms against the vaulted ceilings, but it resonates like the quietest whisper of distant thunder.

One of the soldiers hesitates, but the other immediately lifts his weapon, and Quinn pushes past him to see the king, standing before his throne, watching her with a soft, quiet cerulean stare. His face is swathed with a thick beard, and his hair cascades down his shoulders in salt-and-pepper chestnut. Before him are a handful of various well-dressed men and woman who watch her entrance with side-eyes. They are obviously nobles of some nature at council with the king.

Quinn stops in her tracks. All eyes are centered on her as she bows graciously. If Valor weren’t on her fist, she might have fallen to her knees. “Your majesty…” she breathes, “thank you.”

The king steps down from his dais overseeing the room. His footsteps are slow, proud, confident, and he places a hand on her shoulder, bending closer to her level. “Rise, child… I am sorry for your loss.”

Her heart may as well be in her throat, just now. “Your grace…” she manages, but no more, for the throbbing lump has her choked for breath.

“To lose someone so precious to you must be a great burden, for which, I feel your sorrow. But certainly, to come to me directly, you have not come to grieve in the presence of your king. What is your business here, young one?”

She straightens, puffing her chest slightly. “I am Quinn Selby of Uwendale. I wish to become a ranger.”

King Jarvan rubs his eyes, a sigh inflating his broad chest. “Some of my finest have come to me from Uwendale, legends are born there. But why you?”

 “I wish to honor the wish of my brother, and the footsteps of my mother.” Quinn can feel the tears beginning to dampen her lashes.

“Such is a noble cause.” He pauses, and paces the room back to his dais. “I warn you, one eagle and falconry experience may not be enough to earn you the necessary favor with my generals.”

“M’king,” began one of the ladies at the table, rising to her feet. She is garbed in a robe of lavender over a midnight blue gown, her dark, silvery hair plaited in an updo at the crown of her head. “There may be a fix for this.”

Quinn feels as if she recognizes this woman, though she is unable to place a name with the face and demeanor that gently overtakes the power of the king as she speaks.

The woman rests her hand delicately upon the table. “I remember a young pair of twins from one of my brothers’ hunting trips to Uwendale itself under the surname of Selby. Quinn was one of them, and the pair of them saved the lives of several of my family, who I hold very dearly to my heart, at the expense of her brother’s life.”

“Truly?” the king questions.

“Truly,” says the noblewoman in response with a knowing glance in Quinn’s direction. “I would be more than willing to make arrangements to… how shall I say, _sway_ your generals, is that alright?”

The king strokes his beard once then nods. “If this lass showed such bravery already, I see no reason why she shouldn’t be made the offer. Surely your tale will sway them, even sans exaggeration.”

She steps away from her place at the table, and dips herself in a curtsy. “M’lord, if you shall excuse me, I now have business to handle.”

The king waves his hand to dismiss them both, and the noblewoman sweeps over Quinn’s way in a motion similar enough to Valor coming to her glove. An urgent hand is placed in the small of her back, and she is hustled forth through the hall towards the entrance.

“Your name is Quinn, yes?” The noblewoman pauses as Quinn took the rein of her horse at the gate.

“Yes, and my brother was Caleb.”

“Ah, yes, Caleb. The poor lad. My name is Lestara, matron of the Buvelle line. In honesty, you may call me Lestara. I am no _Lady Buvelle,_ at least not to you, child. I owe you enough as it is; that is the least I can do for the moment.”

Lady Buvelle is helped into a carriage, and while Quinn expects to have to mount her own horse as a peasant might, the noblewoman extends her hand, a disarming smile spreading her features. “Come along, we haven’t time to waste. Your pony will be cared for.”

Quinn has never ridden in a carriage like this before, so the plush black velveteen interior seems far too fancy and far too elegant for a ride to an estate. It reeks of saccharine perfumes that overwhelm her senses and cling to her nose like a damp blanket. Valor, on her fist, is fully fluffed, all his feathers sticking out in odd angles. He is more uncomfortable than she is in the cramped space. She slips his hood over his head, though it seems to be of little comfort to him.

“We must get you suited for an audience with General Montagne. He leads the ranger division of the army, and if you are better dressed, he might listen more.”

A grimace crosses Quinn’s features. “Are all city folk so petty?”

Lady Buvelle’s eyes seem to flash. “Yes, all of them are. Including me. Now, General Montagne will expect you to speak and say many things about what _qualifies_ you for becoming one of his rangers. You, however, will say nothing, and allow me to speak. He expects some grandiose tale from you. No witnesses, just something of the nature of mentioning some title of some legend from where you are from, like Beast-slayer or Beast-master. For that, he will not accept you, but I will speak, and he will listen to it. He is a nobleman first, ranger second. Nobles stay close, no matter our differences.”

She can’t help but notice how Lady Buvelle always seems to know more than she says, and yet still, she says a lot.

The carriage rolls to a stop outside a well-kept palace – the lawn is clipped, the flowerbeds perfectly weeded and blooming in a rainbow of color swirling throughout the courtyard. A fountain spews water high into the air from the mouth of a fish to be caught by a maiden in a basin. It is far less grandiose than the castle, but still seems far too large to be homey.

“The aviary hasn’t been used in _years_. We’ll need to get it cleaned up a bit, don’t you think?” Lady Buvelle takes Quinn’s hand and escorts her quickly from the carriage to the manse. She always seems so hurried, the swiftness with which she sheds her robe and strides into the front hall. “Lucille?” she calls into the sweeping atrium, to which a maid comes dashing to the top step. “Ready the guest room, please, and find someone to ready the aviary.”

Quinn is quiet through this. She still doesn’t fully grasp what’s happening. It all feels like a dream. A gentleman takes Valor from her hand with delicate handling. Valor foots at the new glove, nearly tearing a hole in the lighter leather on contact, but Lady Buvelle doesn’t note the struggling beastmaster behind her.

“Come now, we have a tailor at the moment to fit you, and I would simply _love_ for you to meet my daughter.”

She barely has a chance to soak in her environment as Lady Buvelle whisks her off to an adjacent room _made_ for a tailor, on their estate. They must be very rich to have a tailor on staff like this… even hiring a tailor for big events from time to time costs a lot of money. Lady Buvelle helps her up onto the platform in the center of the room.

The seamstress hesitates.

“Plans have changed, darling, don’t worry about this and I will give you a bonus for the expense.” Lady Buvelle waves a dismissing hand. “She needs something well-fitting and sharp, though not so feminine, as she is going to become a _ranger_. Trousers. You decide the blouse, dear, and a fine cloak.”

Quinn is measured, and though this is a process she had done once a year through her childhood, it still makes her uncomfortable, all the moving and the tickly measurement instruments. But the seamstress takes down all the notes she needs, and smiles softly, and begins her work sketching something of a pattern. Once the seamstress is through with her, Lady Buvelle hurries her on to the next task – meeting the daughter.

“Flavius? Fetch Sona, and take her to the drawing room. It has been a busy day. Tea, perhaps?” The butler she passes disappears behind them and into the home.

Quinn is grateful for the armchair she’s offered once they reach the previously mentioned room.  For the life of her, she would never be able to keep all the different names of rooms straight in her mind, even if she lived here. This room has wide windows, sweeping curtains, plush rugs and nicely upholstered furniture. Bookshelves line the walls, and there is an angled sketching table near one wall.

A girl not much older than Quinn comes drifting into the room. She glances from her footing through the room up to meet Quinn's eyes, and she offers a sort of forced smile. Everything about her is silent, but the more striking aspect of her form is her hair, vibrant blue and pulled to the sides of her head in long pigtails.

Lady Buvelle smiles broader, and rises to her feet to take her daughter's hand delicately in hers to guide her through the room. Something about this girl is distinctly _off_ , and it unsettles Quinn greatly. She is _too_ quiet, _too_ light, _too_ pale, _too_ distant. Too quiet. Much too quiet.

The girl is seated in a chair near Quinn, and the butler from before enters the room with a steaming tea set of fine porcelain. He offers Quinn her cup, which she takes with ample sugar and cream as she always had, despite liking coffee like her mother prepared it -- hot and black and sludgy. Leaf water always tasted like medicine to Quinn, but apparently something about it is posh.

Again, the butler is shooed off. "So, Quinn, meet my daughter, Sona. Sona, this is Quinn Selby of Uwendale. She wishes to become a ranger... she was one of the ones that saved the expedition to Uwendale, remember that? With the tuskvore?"

Sona nods and smiles, still saying nothing. Perhaps there is a necessity to this -- Lady Buvelle talks all the time, so she needed a child who never talked. _Is she mute?_ Quinn thinks as she buries her nose into her teacup, attempting to douse the shivering unease fluttering through her chest with scalding tea.

She takes out a pad of paper from a pocket of her dress and a fountain pen, and writes, _It is a pleasure to meet you, Quinn._

For a moment, Quinn doesn't know how to respond, as it is now obvious that the young mistress of the Buvelle line is completely mute. "I... um..." She clears her throat, takes another burning gulp of tea, and musters a quiet, "Pleasure to meet you too, madame."

Despite the hospitality, Quinn finds herself wondering how soon she can escape this pleasantry and fall headfirst into working. She wishes her mother were there. She wishes she had the ability to just stand up to the general herself. She wishes, maybe, just maybe, she could skip to the part where she is doing honor to her brother and following her mother's distant memory through the wilds of distant Runeterran lands.


	3. The Selby Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quinn is introduced to the General, who knows more of her than anyone else in the city.

General Montagne isn't like any of the generals are touted to be. 

He's a small man, not much taller than Quinn is with yet years more growth ahead of her, and very distant. His face bears scars of animals, clearly, because what else cleaves with four ragged lines, and his hair is thinning and grey. While he looks weak, Quinn knows he is not a man to be trifled with, if for his title alone. He sits with a slight slouch, having no need for pride or pleasantry, and his eyes are a tired mossy green. 

_ He is a noble first _ , she recalls Lady Buvelle saying, though he shows no sign of any prior nobility now as he sits behind his desk pushing file work for the ranger class of vanguard. 

"General Montagne," Lady Buvelle begins, dipping slightly in a curtsy. She nudges Quinn to bow, which she does. 

The clothes she'd been offered pinch and chafe, but she's not about to complain about them in front of the matron, let alone in front of the general she so desperately needs to plea with for this position. With skintight trousers and a collar so tight it chokes her for breath, Quinn can't imagine wearing such terrible things all the time. She wonders if perhaps nobility always had to dress like this.

The general shoves the spectacles previously resting on his desk onto his nose, and stares at Quinn with an analytical stare. He knows the reason Lady Buvelle is here isn't for herself, and Quinn can feel it with how he seems to stare through her. He then removes the spectacles, and glances drowsily in the direction of the lady. 

"You needn't tell me, Lestara," he begins, his eyebrows raised slightly. "I've heard of your plans for this lass and I understand the sentiment... though, you know me."

With one hand on the center of the table, he stands, eyes now closed. Maybe he is blind, or in some part blind, but he so obviously knows exactly where Quinn is, it makes her skin crawl. The general is vigilant, aware, and far more terrifying than her mother ever seemed to be. 

"What is your name, child?" 

Lady Buvelle opens her mouth for her, but the general holds up one hand at the slightest draw of breath from Lady Buvelle. 

"What is your name?" he repeats.

"Quinn Selby, sir."

"Selby, mm?" He rolls back on his heels, straightening his form slightly with his respect. "I seem to recall that family name. How coincidental."

Is this about her mother?

Quinn finds herself leaning forward slightly in anticipation through his silence. He's quiet for a reason, she's sure, just like her mother was always quiet for a reason. After a time, he strokes his beard. 

"You said she has the king's blessing, Lestara, yes?"

"General Montagne, she has all but the whole council's blessing." Lady Buvelle is emphatic, raising her voice over the room as if it proved anything. Quinn, having already felt his general tone mimicking that of her mother's, knew it would do nothing to raise a voice at him. 

"I see. Shoo, then. I wish to speak with her."

Lady Buvelle shot him a glare, but whisked her skirts and left them alone. Obviously she had words for him, and should Quinn not secure her place in the military, she'd make it happen. The door closes behind her abruptly, and silence engulfs Quinn and the general for a long moment, the sort of prolonged silence present in the woods before a huge nighttime storm. He waits for something, then speaks softly, voice different now, gentle and quiet as the babbling of a brook or the chattering of a squirrel. 

"Was your mother named Irma, child?"

He knew her mother. The thought of her mother wrenches her chest fiercely, gripping at her with a dangerous feeling, close to panic. 

He feels her nervousness and steps around his desk, taking a chair for himself and a chair for Quinn. He seats her in it, then sits down himself. "I am not your enemy, nor am I your nightmare, young one. I was your mother's commanding officer, long before she retired to Uwendale for love and needed rest. I do not need my eyesight to be well to see her in you." 

She dips her head. Many people claimed they saw her mother in her, though she couldn't see it. Her mother was always wiser, always kinder, always more graceful and so many things more becoming of a Demacian than she is. 

"I heard of an eagle who rode in on your wrist. An azurite."

"Yes, sir," she responds, words soft and curt. 

He extends his hand to her shoulder. "This shows your wisdom through your doubt. Azurites do not take their companions lightly. They are choosy, and dangerous beasts, even as eyasses. Yet you raised one, and that shows more than any story of grandeur that proves you deserve this than that spun tale Lestara was about to lay on me."

She doesn't flinch. She holds herself as high as she might without being disrespectful, and maintains his gaze. Like with an azurite eagle, she'll have to earn his respect.

"You have a place with us in the rangers' division, that much is certain, like your mother before you." He rose to his feet to take his place behind the desk once more. "Return to me tomorrow in the rallying yard with your bird. I would like to meet him, and it is there I will provide you with the supplies you will need to be a ranger. Do not expect special treatment as Irma's daughter. I will run you ragged, but you will come out all the stronger for it."

"Thank you, sir." 

Quinn rose to her feet.

"Dismissed, Private."

With this, she steps out of the room, and meets Lady Buvelle down the hall, where she smiles at her success, and her host cast her a knowing smile in return. Quinn is going to be a ranger.


	4. Bird and Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quinn shows off to General Montagne and the rest of the Demacian soldiers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this one seems short, but it is technically longer than the previous chapter and we're gonna do a bit of a time skip next chapter to a couple months later... getting into the good stuff now. :)

The mustering ground is already teeming with both new recruits and older rangers, eagles and falcons and hounds shrilling and barking to their counterparts as their masters hold them. Quinn comes dressed in the clothes she had been given by the general himself, and glances around the mustering ground for his familiar grizzled face. The ground below her feet is sand and rock, the noise from the surrounding courtyards and training fields overwhelming to both her and to Valor both, even with his hood swaddling his ears of sound and danger.

Once she finally finds the general, he already focuses on the other recruits around him, not one of them much older than her. One of them isn't much older than twelve or thirteen, the age Quinn had been when her mother took her out into the woods for her first major hunting excursion, with eager eyes and a ready posture. He reminds her so much of Caleb, but he's cleaner, tidier, as if his parents had just sent him off to his first day as a ranger as simply as it had been a school where he might learn to read or write. Quinn looks around her, and counts five recruits, counting herself. There is the eager child, a lanky and solemn-faced female youth roughly her age with a deer hound at her heel, a burly lad who she suspects will not fare kindly to ranging, and a fair-faced lad with hair like straw.

General Montagne regards all five of them with a serious regard for a long moment, taking a second to drink in all their presences at attention in their fatigues, and as soon as he finishes, he straightens, passing his gaze over the lot once more before he speaks in a boom Quinn hadn't expected of him.

"Recruits!" he begins, tipping his chin up slightly to be heard over the clamoring courtyard. "Today is your first day, and it is today you will be tested to ensure your ability in your fields, given your base knowledge. Rangers are elites. We train daily with no exceptions and there is no mountain too broad, no river too deep, no castle wall too steep for this is what we spend our lives training for. The enemy does not outrun the king's wolves."

His voice drops, and his gaze meets Quinn's for a long moment. She finds herself holding her breath for what it's worth, then he passes his gaze on through the group.

"Selby, Wilde, Lestrade, Hewn, Charenne. The five of you -- light bidding -- will be our newest addition to the rangers' newest patrol. Until you are no longer recruits, you will share a barrack with the rest of them, and your animals will be kept in kennels. Worry not of them not being exercised or fed, we will treat them as you, offering three square meals and daily drill. You will be responsible for your own animal. For a portion, we will split off into specialist group drills daily. Selby, you will be with the falconry division, of course, and Lestrade, you will be with the hounds. The rest of you will need to spend extra time with some of my top officers to find the specialization that suits you."

"As for testing..." He pauses, pacing his step between the five new recruits, stopping before Quinn. "I have an eager volunteer here, do I not, Selby?"

"Yes, sir," she replies, standing up proudly with a hand thumped to her chest in salute.

One of his brows quirks slightly with the bowing of his lip. "Come now, then," he says. "Clear some space, everyone, and show me what you might do, Selby. First, let us test your skill with your eagle, for this is why we're bringing you on, is it not?"

"Yes, sir."

Quinn removes Valor's hood and jesses -- she doesn't need them, they're more for formality sake -- and the eagle looks amongst the circled recruits, then tips his head at the dog slightly. She strokes back his crest, tickles a bit at his downy breast feathers, then releases him to the sky. She needs no lure to dance with him, to show his tricks.

He lets out his first call, just as trained, and she responds in kind.

"Tell us about what is happening here," requests the general. Someone has gotten him a chair, so he can watch these goings on in comfort.

"Valor and I have a call and response, so he has no need for bells that may distract from whatever it is I have him do. It is one intermittent whistle. Should I not whistle back, he will rush to my aid, and I will do the same. That's how birds communicate in the wild. I've heard them."

General Montagne nods slowly. "Show us more."

She whistles once more, a three toned note, barely under her breath, and he begins circling straight above her head. "Circle me."

A couple more tricks, her calling him to the glove and sending him off, hop from surface to surface, all the normal falconry tricks are shared, and the general seems mildly impressed.

"I see your skill, Selby. Have you anything else you'd like to share?"

Wordlessly, she pulls out the meat, and does something her mother would never dare do. Valor sees the treat on her glove and dives for it, but just in the nick of time, Quinn pulls it away. He leads off with a trill of play, and she ducks and spins, with grace taking the eagle's attention to food and making dance of it. On the ground, she flies, matching her avian companion in grace, and from the sides of the mustering point, men and women-at-arms watch this new recruit, who looks every bit like her Azurite companion as she moves. She's smiling, and his crest is up. People watch them with wide eyes, but her heavy breathing is of no consequence, and when he comes to the glove at long last, she holds him closely and nuzzles his face with her nose. Bird and girl, for a short time, become one, with his wings lazily draping over his food as he eats, thus shrouding her face and shoulders like the darkness of a mother's shawl.


	5. The Young Rangers' Hunt, Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quinn gets to know her fellow recruits on a mock mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PSYCH! It isn't a huge timeskip since I felt bad about doing that... continuity and introducing characters and all. Though this just means the later chapter featuring the king will go up sooner, so I guess it'll be better in the long run.

Despite being a mock mission, no holds are barred for the young rangers attempting it.

Their instructor for drill, Sir Craig, calls them to action early. All five, including Quinn, are ready at first light for this job, animals and all. This will be their first taste of their assigned duty for the crown, though albeit in a condensed, safe environment. Valor is excited, he can taste the petricite forests' air and ambiance, and they haven't even stepped a single foot outside the farmland surrounding the citadel. His feathers ruffle against every breeze, though he remains perched upon Quinn's glove with no intent to leave. This will be his first try at hunting something other than wildlife, and it worries Quinn. What if he's not receptive to this? He's never stalked a human before... at least, not really. Since coming, he's attacked their falconry instructor thrice. Though there was ultimately no harm done, Quinn doesn't know if that's an improvement or not.

"I have all the information here," begins Sir Craig, passing a small folder to the girl with the hound, who takes it and folds it under her armpit as if she might suddenly lose it. "You will be tracking a man you have never seen before, though his face has been dutifully drawn for you on page two. He is one of our knights. Fear not hurting him, he is in full plate. There is a hamlet housing him who we have informed of your mission. This is slated to take three days."

"If any of you neglect your duties here, there is no leeway. You must pull your weight. This is an official operation, and you are expected to all have something to contribute. If you do not, then this will be your final exam as a ranger." He gives a firm look to the strapping lad of their group, who has already passed most of the strenuous requirements of endurance and strength, and glances back at the group. "The lot of you may discuss plans here, though recall that time is of the utmost. You will earn a bonus for completing this before the three-day period is up." He dips his head. "Go as you might."

The girl with the hound holds her head up high, and gestures for all to surround her. Valor peeps rudely as Quinn approaches, though the girl makes no comment.

"I suppose we'd best learn each other's names. I don't think I've spoken to one of you of yet, and we all sleep in the same bunk room." Without much ceremony, she points first to the biggest of them. "Just tell me your name as I point to you."

"Oh! Um, my name is Colin."

"Savan," says the fair-haired lad.

The littlest boy dips his head. "Hirand," he mumbles.

"Quinn."

"And I'm Patronia. I don't think surnames have much purpose here. We're comrades, not strangers. We'll be fighting with the same blood and sleeping in the same tents our whole lives. Class means nothing."

Quinn nods slightly. While she doesn't particularly like Patronia's constantly haughty tone, she likes the way this girl thinks.

"Let's see that file, then," Quinn says, ready to get to business. "There's no time to waste."

Patronia passes the file to her, and she opens it up to rifle through the pieces. There's a small chunk of blue fabric emblazoned with the Demacian insignia, several sketches of where he was last seen, a sketch of his face, though crude, and a file listing his rank and title before listing his known contacts, at least for sake of this exercise, and likely places of hiding. Immediately, Quinn takes out the scrap of fabric and passes it to Patronia. "That will be helpful for your hound to know the scent of.

She grips it in her palm. "Yes, that's true," she says evenly. It's impossible to read her expression, though it seems annoyed.

Hirand peeks up over the pages. "I know where that is, it's a meadow near my parents' estate."

"And that's closer to High Silvermere," Savan remarks.

Colin pulls aside the map, tries to make sense of it for a moment before he spreads it out on their table and circles a portion with his index finger. "The hamlet would likely be somewhere in this radius, if nothing else."

Both Savan and Hirand cast him looks, but Patronia rolls her eyes.

"Just because Colin is a simple woodcutter's son doesn't mean anything. He may be less apt to sneaking, but he _is_ here for a reason, boys."

Quinn nods vigorously. "I'm a farmer's daughter, and I brought an Azurite eagle with me. Our histories don't matter when we're tracking."

"But that's --" Savan begins to protest.

Patronia gives him a good whack at the base of his skull. "Unimportant to the task at hand," she finishes. "What is important is that Colin has knowledge of cartography, woodcutter's son or not. We have a solid day's journey just to reach that area on foot. We'd best get started, if we would like jobs _other_ than our parents' professions." She rolls up the map and bundles up the file once more. "Come on, now."

* * *

The path of scent runs out at the first river. Patronia's hound snuffles around its banks, overturning leaves and bushes in search of the other end of the trail, though it turns up barren. Patronia casts her sharp gaze around the area, examining for any signs of anything that could lead them to their mark for a moment, and shakes her head.

"There's nothing," she remarks, rolling back on her heels with a look of solemn defeat. "When Borun can't find something, I can't find it. That's just the way things are."

Quinn shook her head. "There's a reason we're together. Not one of us can do this alone. We have to do it together. That's the intent of this." She threw Valor up into the air, and he quickly climbed updrafts to rise above the trees. He let out single noted whistles, which Quinn responds to in turn. "We can continue looking on the ground, but having an aerial view could help us out a lot. He'll screech should he see anything strange, that's how I keep track of him."

Savan scratches his chin slightly, cradling his compass in one hand and the other half of the map that Colin held in his other. "Well, if we're right about the whole High Silvermere thing, then the path would run to the northeast, which follows a tributary of the Crown River, here. If we follow the river, we should be able to follow the tributary, and then with any luck your hound will pick the scent back up."

"I'd rather not go off on a lark like that. We don't know if it's the case or not. We aren't sure, and I would prefer to be completely sure. We've only got three days. It'll take us two to get to High Silvermere on the regular roads," says Patronia, shaking her head.

"The fastest way between two points is a straight line," Hirand replies in a chipper tone. "He probably just took the fastest way."

Quinn nods in agreement. "He probably shedded his boots and his greaves, and waded the river. We don't know if he had a pack or not, but we can go along the bank and if we find it anywhere, we'll probably find the scent trail not far off."

The group wanders along the banks with the hound dashing around the banks and dancing in and out of trees. He reminds Quinn of her own Valor, his readiness to rush into battle and his excitement for just being around his master. Patronia, however, seems indifferent to this. Soon enough, dusk is upon them, and while they approach the meadow sketched with one of his most recent sightings, there is nothing of note. They set up camp, the five young rangers all tired and mildly concerned for the hunt they had embarked on.


End file.
